


Saudade

by tequilatuesdays



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, cmbyn
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 11:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14976344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tequilatuesdays/pseuds/tequilatuesdays
Summary: Saudadeis a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return.





	Saudade

The train hasn't even left the station yet and I am already missing him.  
I can still feel him locking his arms around me, his blood pumping through him as I press my face against his chest,  
his warm breath coming off his lips. I can still smell him on my hands, feel his stubble brush against my cheek for a second before we part. 

I am trying to suppress the tears, I want to stay strong, be a man, but they keep pouring and pouring and pouring from my eyes.  
I keep taking long, slow breaths but the air feels stuffy and thick.  
I need to sit down.

We had spent the previous nights knowing that this moment would come.  
It was inevitable, unstoppable. A relentless feeling of anticipating that missing him would tear me apart.

Yet, in this moment, I felt utterly unprepared and completely lost.  
I wanted to hold on to him forever.  
I wanted to crawl inside his body and stay there for all of eternity, be one with him and warm myself in his blood  
because he wouldn't just leave a cold spot on my mattress but, adding to that, he'd leave a cold spot inside of me; inside of my heart.  
Or better yet – his absence would freeze my heart and since I didn't have use for a heart without Oliver, I would shatter it into a million little pieces,  
pulverize it and let it be carried away by the winds.

I bury my head in my hands, still trying to stop the tears from falling onto my knees and thighs  
as I look down to hide my red, blotchy face from other passengers and their companions whom I am sharing the fate of saying goodbye to a loved one with.  
When he got on that train, it took every last bit of strength in me not to scream  
_“Take me with you! I won't function without you, your body is my motivation, your heart is my will to live – take them away and I am lifeless!”_  
But I didn't. And now he's gone. 

I desperately want this part to be over already.  
The part where I am not completely consumed by the thought of him. I want to skip the part of me coming home and having to deal with an empty room, an empty bed.  
I wonder if Mafalda has already washed the bedspread. She is always quick to eradicate all signs of our houseguests once they have left after their time with us was up.  
Maybe it is for the better.  
Maybe it helps to cauterize every last memory of him. Have him gone, not just physically, but gone from my head,  
removed from the part of my brain that he has intruded and made himself so comfortable in. 

I absentmindedly wipe my nose with the sleeve of my shirt... _Billowy_

I pull the collar of the shirt up to my nose with both hands and inhale its scent, _Oliver's scent_.  
I made him wear it throughout our stay in Rome and had put it on this morning in a desperate attempt to hold on to the deep feeling of intimacy and the utter bliss we had found ourselves in these last couple of days.  
How could I ever, even just for a couple of seconds, be that naive to think I will be able to forget about him?  
I know that, as soon as I arrive at home, I will be heading straight to our room, throw myself on our bed and run my hand over his pillow,  
smell every inch of the fabric, maybe even find a stray, blond hair.  
I know I will carefully unfold the note he left me, read the same words over and over again _“Grow up. I'll see you at midnight.”_  
until I know every last curve of his handwriting by heart, fold it and tuck it back into my journal.  
I know, I will never taste another peach without thinking of him first  
and I will never ride past Monet's Berm without thinking about licking his soft lips.  
I know that every once in a while I will carefully remove Billowy from its plastic laundry bag, wrap its sleeves around my neck,  
breathe out our names in the dark of the night and remember his voice in my ear

because, Oliver, I promise, I will never know a better sound than hearing your name on your lips as if it were mine.


End file.
